I used to be sick all the time. Every year, without fail, pneumonia would visit me at least twice, followed by endless rounds of colds and the flu. I remember the exhaustion, the constant coughing, the way my body always felt like it was fighting something. I was so weak that my mom would carry a thermos of herbal tea everywhere, and people would whisper that I was too fragile, too small.

When I turned nine, my dad decided something had to change. One evening, he told me to put on my shoes and come outside. No explanations. Just, “Let’s go.” That night, we started a routine—every evening, we’d walk two miles to a nearby neighborhood. There was a tiny supermarket tucked on the corner, nothing fancy. But for me, it was everything. My reward was a fried squid snack.

He always held a cup of water in his hand. I’d trail a few steps behind him, trying to match his pace. The night was quiet. The air was cooler. The world felt slower.

We talked about anything. I’d ask him why the moon followed us, why our shadows stretched longer under streetlights, why trees swayed so loudly when there was no wind. He’d answer every question with a kind of gentle confidence, like he had all the time in the world to wonder with me.

As time passed, I got stronger. My body healed. I stopped getting sick so often. But along with my health improving, life got busier. Homework piled up. I had more friends, more distractions. The night walks faded slowly, until they stopped altogether. I didn’t even notice when we had our last one. And after I stopped walking with him, he stopped walking too.

We drifted. He stayed up late watching the news. I stayed in my room, headphones on. The space between us grew. The silence filled in the cracks that our conversations used to hold.

And now, years later, I find myself missing those walks, not the walking, but the feeling. As much as I hated the actual act of walking, I miss being beside him. I miss feeling like I belonged in that space with him.

We’re different now. We argue over little things, and sometimes it feels like we live in different worlds. I see the lines on his face getting deeper. He sees me as someone he doesn’t always understand.

Sometimes I wonder—what happened to us?
And even more, what happened to me?

Maybe it was just a season. Maybe we both changed.
But part of me wishes I could go back, just once, and ask him if he still wants to take a walk.